


Nothing like how we started

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: Getting a nemesis doesn’t really go the way Clarke would have expected. It’s just fairly… anticlimactic. Mostly because they only see each other in lectures, and they don’t ever actually talk to each other. Their rivalry consists of raised hands and pointed responses that are technically directed to the professor, but plainly in opposition to the other.OR: The one where Clarke and Bellamy are the students you hated in all your classes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindclaws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/gifts).



> Bellarke secret santa gift for Sara//kindclaws.
> 
> It was an honor to write for such a great writer! I hope you enjoy it!

Getting a nemesis doesn’t really go the way Clarke would have expected.

It’s just fairly… anticlimactic. Mostly because they only see each other in lectures, and they don’t ever actually talk _to_ each other. Their rivalry consists of raised hands and pointed responses that are _technically_ directed to the professor, but plainly in opposition to the other.

It starts in their mandatory literature class, freshman year of college, when a guy with messy dark hair shoots up a hand after she gives an interpretation of the book they’re reading.

“Sorry professor, but doesn’t that seem a little unfair to her character? To say that her entire purpose is to foster growth in her sister is a pretty dehumanizing.” He’s got a voice that she would consider nice, were he not directly criticizing her.

Before the professor can respond, Clarke’s arm is up.

“Sometimes a pen is just a pen,” she returns, hardly waiting for the professor’s nod. “Side characters are always instruments of the protagonist’s story. If they weren’t, books would just be a mess of like, ten people’s independent stories.”

It would be fair to say that Clarke is pretty used to people backing down, once she commits to an argument. Not that she’s full of herself, but she does know how to have commanding presence.

But in this case, so, apparently, does her sparring partner. Whose hand has been in the air since before she finished speaking. Their professor looks a little pained.

“I mean,” he starts, still looking at the professor instead of her, but not bothering to wait for his go-ahead, “I guess if you want to ignore the depth that Austen has built, that’s fine, but it’s fairly obvious that Lydia has a story and growth of her own. Ignoring that would be pretty narrow minded.”

She can’t be sure, but she thinks he just called her self-centered via literary analogy. It would be impressive if she weren’t so fucking mad.

So yeah, from that point on, she finds herself saddled with some kind of weird, nerdy rivalry for the remainder of the semester. The two of them don’t raise their hands in every lecture, but when one has an opinion, the other’s is soon to follow, and she’s fairly sure attendance to the 8 am class actually goes _up_ , just on the chance there might be an all-out brawl.

Then the quarter ends. She gets a good grade—which she’s mildly surprised about, but they never went _that_ far off topic, she supposes—but regardless, it’s done.

Or so she assumes.

*

Bellamy knows he’s an irritable person.

He’s come to terms with it over the years and, for the most part, knows how to reign it in. After all, it’s not the fault of mildly bothersome people that he has “overactive annoyance glands,” as his sister likes to put it.

So it’s not often that he takes a class and comes out of it without being put-off by _someone_. Be it the professor, a TA, or another student.

It’s just not usually the _same person._

He’s had five classes with Clarke Griffin since freshman year, and he’s really starting to believe that the universe has it out for him.

…because she’s so ridiculously frustrating.

Not because she’s also distractingly pretty. That’s a side thing.

But if they’re in a section together, heated arguments are bound to occur, and you could make good money betting that they’ll always be on opposite sides.

After the literature class, it’s an intro to art history course, where arguments abound over what matters more: the historical significance behind each piece, or the impact of that artwork on artists and techniques for years to come.

Bellamy favors the former, Clarke the latter, and somehow it always boils down to something… ugly.

“You _would_ care more about the physical product that the people behind it,” he murmurs, not quite quietly enough, during one discussion. “Typical.”

He can see the storm in her face before she turns on him.

“Typical? If you want to talk _typical_ , let’s discuss how much you _love_ to turn every painting into a discourse on revolution.” She sneers a little, and he thinks his eye might twitch. “We get it. You hate the system. But this is an art history class. You know, emphasis on the _art._ ”

They don’t get kicked out of the class, but it’s a near thing.

*

Spring quarter of sophomore year, they take the same world politics class and end up on opposing sides for the final debate. Which is the least surprising thing that’s ever happened in Clarke’s life.

They shoot borderline disrespectful comments back and forth, out-talking the rest of their groupmates by a mile.

The one highlight, for her, is when she starts a sentence with “Bellamy Blake wants you to believe…,” and is rewarded by the hilarious look of shock on his face that she knows his name.

That is, until he starts his next comment with, “What Clarke Griffin says _seems_ true, but when you look below the surface…” and she’s forced to swallow her delight.

They get anonymous comment cards on their debate performance from their classmates afterwards, and all of hers are fairly generic, until she gets to one, scrawled in a messy hand, that actually gives helpful feedback.

It reads: _Good control of facts, a little overly flowery at times. Relied a bit too heavily on emotional appeal, but still one of the best speakers in class._

And though she doesn’t have any grounds to think it’s from him, that doesn’t keep her from _feeling_ like it is.

*

Then, in junior year, Clarke is in Bellamy’s math class—the one that’s required for all liberal arts major, that Bellamy has, of course, put off as long as possible.

He sees her blonde head bob into the classroom as he takes his seat on the first day, and feels his stomach give a weird flip of apprehension and then… excitement.

Because, again, his life is stupid.

But as it turns out, he never gets the chance to start any dumb arguments with her because the professor fucking _sucks_ and Bellamy spends every second of the class scribbling down the words that come out of his mouth, in the hopes that, when he looks at them later, they’ll actually form some kind of coherent explanation of the concept they’re going over.

Which hardly ever actually happens. He manages okay by cross-referencing basically every line of notes with the text book, but yeah, the class is basically the bane of his existence.

And not even in the fun way, like classes with Clarke usually are.

There’s probably something to examine there, but he elects to ignore it. Because he’s a mature adult who’s on top of his shit. Obviously.

He manages the first few weeks of the semester that way—does alright on the homework, grasps at least a few of the formulas they go over in class—but then 5th week hits and it’s just a whole new level of awful.

So he swallows his pride and shows up early to the second class of the week, hoping to catch the professor before the hour starts to rehash the things he _still_ doesn’t get from the last class. He’s so caught up in his notes as he approaches the door that he doesn’t even notice the cascade of blonde hair hunched over notes and a textbook on the hallway floor until he’s only steps away.

The sight makes him stop in his tracks for a moment, a brief flash of unpleasantness stirring in his chest.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect that she’d be here early. Fuck, she probably loves this class, and comes early to get even more material. That seems like something she’d do.

Not that he wouldn’t do the same, if he actually _understood_ anything in this godforsaken class.

So it’s definitely hurt pride, and whatever part of him that _likes_ looking for arguments with her, that leads him to say, “This is the worst class I’ve ever taken.”

Her head jerks up to him in surprise from where she’s sitting on the floor, a wary look morphing into annoyance when she recognizes him.

He waits for her to snark back at him, waits for some, probably well-deserved, comment about how maybe it wouldn’t be so hard for him if he could actually see the board around his inflated ego.

Instead, he just watches her annoyance fall into exhaustion.

“Yeah, I don’t understand shit.”

On the long list of possible—probably _warranted_ —responses, that one wasn’t really one he’d been expecting.

What’s even more surprising is that they apparently… agree on something.

She’s turned her attention back to her notes by the time he’s finished processing this, and she looks… about as tired as he feels, honestly.

And it’s not like he _hates_ her. She’s smart, if a little pretentious, but so is he, and he thinks they might have been friends if their relationship hadn’t started with a very public argument. About Pride and Prejudice.

He has an interesting life.

Which is how he finds himself dropping his backpack to the floor and sliding down the wall to sit beside her, pulling out his own notes.

She stiffens a little, but otherwise seems to be ignoring him. Which, again. Justified.

“Did you understand any of that theorem he went over on Tuesday?” he asks.

When she turns to look at him, it’s with suspicion, gauging how this could possibly lead to an argument.

Apparently accepting the lack of ill will, she visibly deflates, slouching back against the wall.

“Not even a word.”

“Yeah, same.”

“I’m a little surprised you haven’t been able to start an argument in this class yet,” she says after a moment.

He gapes. “Me?” When he turns to her though, there’s a smile at the corner of her lips, and he mirrors it; he knows how to play this game. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t start those at least half of the time, princess.”

“Big words coming from a guy who champions Lydia Bennet,” she shoots back.

“Oh my god, shut up,” he groans, grinning.

And that, apparently, is all it takes to become friends with Clarke Griffin.

*

It’s remarkably easy to become friends with Bellamy Blake.

After they talk that day before class, she feels like she starts to see him _everywhere_ around campus.

Which is probably separate from the fact that she now knows what his freckles look like up close and has become shockingly aware of his entire presence. Probably.

But he is also, just _fun_ , she finds, when they’re not arguing. And even then, most of the time, if she’s being honest.

A few days after their… reconciliation in the hallway, she bites the bullet and calls out to him when she sees him in the quad.

He jogs over to her with a weird look on his face.

“What?” she asks, feeling more self-conscious than she’d prefer.

“Nothing, I’m just still getting used to talking to you without a professor facilitating.”

She grins. “Oh, sorry, my bad. Go away and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you. Or I could just yell at you across the quad.”

“That would be the least weird thing to do, yeah,” he shoots back.

She hides her smile as he falls in step beside her. “I was just heading to the library to work on the homework. Wanna come?”

To her delight, he actually _does_ look a little surprised that she wants to hang out with him. It’s adorable.

“Uh, yeah sure.” His face drops. “Oh, except I didn’t bring my text book to campus.”

She might have thought it was an excuse, if not for the fact that he looks plainly disappointed.

“I have mine. We can share.”

So they head to the library, and—look, it should be said that her life is _not_ a cliché, okay? Just because she’s leaning over a textbook with a hot guy who she used to hate, getting distracted every now and then by how fucking _soft_ his hair looks, that doesn’t mean she…

He looks up from the book, meets her eyes, and smiles, and she is so so fucked.

*

By the end of their Junior year, there’s no arguing that Clarke isn’t his best friend. Which would be fantastic if he didn’t also think about kissing her all the time.

Not that being friends with her isn’t fantastic. Because it is. She ends up hanging at his apartment most nights, watching the dumbest thing they can find on TV and exchanging fond insults while he tries not to be in love with her.

Which goes about as well as you would imagine.

They part ways for the summer and keep up a pretty good string of texts and snapchats that honestly get him through the months of working two jobs to pay for school.

Fall quarter of the new school year, they have their first class together, by total coincidence. They definitely could have planned this, but they didn’t and it’s probably fair to say he lights up when he sees her walk through the door and take a seat on the opposite side of the lecture hall.

A flat five minutes into the lecture, Clarke raises her hand with a legitimate question, but it’s physically impossible for him not to respond. It’s all downhill from there.

He means to catch up with her on the way out of the room, but he loses her amongst the crowd, so he opts for finding her outside instead.

He’s straining his neck back toward the building when she catches his arm with a conversational, “So is starting arguments, like, a turn on for you?”

If he were smart, he’d take the easy way out. She’s joking, and he can joke back, play it off.

But _fuck_ he’s missed her over the summer, and he _knows_ he has a stupid grin on his face, and it’s frankly sad at this point to deny that their arguments aren’t his favorite thing.

“Are you going to punch me if I say yes?”

She stops in her tracks, turning toward him. Her response is slow.

“That’s certainly one of the options.”

He shrugs, trying not to look as jittery as he feels. “I’ll take those odds.”

She’s got a hand at the nape of his neck before he has time to process her wide smile, but he gets it together enough to catch her waist, tipping his head down to meet her lips when she presses against him.

They stay entwined long enough to attract a couple wolf-whistles, and Bellamy finally pulls back, keeping his arm looped around her.

“Hi.”

She laughs. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning for one more quick kiss, “me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is it obvious that the only classic literature I know by heart is Pride and Prejudice? Also is it obvious that I get annoyed by people in classes often? …art imitates life??
> 
> Happy Holidays, everyone.


End file.
